Frankie Blue. Of course. I knew I recognized you. How are you, son?
I’m sorry, I don’t –
Harry. Harry Butson.
I still can’t get it.
You showed us around 27 Brook Green. Start of this year. Maud Coldstream and I. A lovely house, but the roof turned out to be in need of replacing. We pulled out in the end. Reluctantly, very reluctantly.
Now it hits me. The snogging geriatrics. Just after I hitched up with Veronica. Harry and Maud. Darby and Joan in person.
Mr Butson, I say levelly. Of course. How are you?
He smiles eagerly.
Fine, I suppose. Not too bad at all, considering. Yourself? You’ve lost a bit of weight. You’re looking a bit under the weather.
No, no Mr Butson. I’m doing good.
Are you sure now?
Oh yes. Business is excellent. Booming.
It is? Well, that’s terrific. Just fantastic.
He nods, not taking his eyes off my face, as if he were chewing me over in his mind. I don’t say it, but he’s lost weight too. He looks frailer, paler, although still elegant, still tough, strangely gentle in his body language. I stare past him out of the window. The young couple are back again, studying the window display. This time they’re arguing loudly. I allow myself a grim little smile.
Have you had the big day yet?
What big day is that, Mr Butson?
Call me Harry. Weren’t you thinking of making the leap? You know. Getting spliced and so forth. Tying the old knot.
Was I? Anyway, it never happened.
What a pity. Still. Plenty of fish in the sea. Plenty of seas, for that matter.
He wrings his hands and looks past me at nothing in particular. I suddenly feel myself irritated, can’t work out what I’m doing here, when I could be at home, watching the… doing the… having a…
Yes. Well. I hear a slight edge of impatience creep into my voice. Mr Butson. Women, you know. Who can fathom them? Anyway. What kind of price range were you looking at?
Harry.
Harry. What can 1 do for you?
Do for me?
Yes. What kind of property are you interested in exactly?
He shakes his head, as if waking from some kind of daydream.
Yes, of course. A little flat. A one-bedder. Something that’s easy to look after.
So you said. Can you tell me a little more perhaps?
Something… something nice and clean, near a bit of greenery. I was hoping to get within walking distance of a park.
Which park?
Butson seems bewildered again.
It doesn’t matter. Holland Park. That would be nice.
I barely suppress a groan. Then I tighten myself up, ready to make the pitch. I’m pretty sure he’s a flake… Last time him and Maud just disappeared, wasting everybody’s time.
Right… You won’t get much for your money around there, I’m afraid. A one-bed is going to cost you not far off 200 grand. And that’s not going to be big enough for you and your wife. You’re going to need something a bit more spacious.
He nods, as if that won’t be too much of a problem. Fucking flake. My head begins to ache. I rub my birthmark with the pad of my index finger, then look theatrically at my watch. I want to get out, go home, fall asleep in front of the telly. The telephone rings. I ignore it. Butson seems in no hurry. A silence falls, forcing me into a bit of small talk.
So how is Maud?
Maud? What do you mean?
He suddenly seems close to some kind of panic.
Maud. Your… your wife.
Now he relaxes and his face fogs over slightly.
Oh, of course. How could you know? She’s passed on, I’m sorry to say.
He’s looking me right in the face with those old watery eyes, the grief suddenly showing like two blinding flashlights.
Oh, I’m sorry.
I feel embarrassed, but also obscurely manipulated. I have the strangest feeling that there is some kind of… calculation going on here.
No need to be sorry. No need.
I look at my watch again, more pointedly this time. But I feel I can’t just leave the subject in the air.
How did it… did she…
Well, it’s hard to talk about.
Of course. I understand.
He sits still for a few more seconds, then pulls at his collar as if adjusting it. Then he begins to speak again.
She had a heart attack. While we were having sex.
He says this with absolute gravity, as if he were a coroner delivering his report before the court. The effect is overwhelming, and horribly comic, coming from this sad, strange old man. Despite every effort I make to suppress it, I bark out a sudden, short, but obvious laugh.
Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…
Oh no, no. I suppose it is quite funny. Not a bad way to go, I should say.
Harry Butson seems unoffended. I regard him carefully. He remains centred, solid, unfragile, just as I remember him, despite his obvious physical decline. Yet I can see now that there is something different about him. What Veronica would have called his aura, something in the lines of his face. Then I see suddenly what it is, and it is what I saw in my mother’s face all those years ago, the same intensity, blindingly clear. Loneliness, like a cold blue light seeping out of his eyes, coming towards me like mustard gas. This makes me panic, makes me want to get out of the office even more. But now I feel duty-bound to continue. I am hooked into a situation that I have no place in, no responsibility for… And I also realize that this was his intent all along. To have a conversation. Any conversation. To stop him being alone, if only for a few minutes. My voice is softer when I speak again.
And you, Mr Butson. How are you then?
Oh, you know. I can’t complain. Maud and I, we had some wonderful times. As most lives go, ours was… well, it would be hard to beat. Of course, I miss her. Every day, I do. Every single day. Like a bruise, it is, an awful bruise. He pauses and catches his breath. But I get by. I get by. Life’s still worth having, I should say. Of course, I’m alone a lot of the time. But you get used to it.
Like you get used to the plague, I think to myself, then say, You have kids, I suppose? making my voice light, falsely optimistic.
Butson smiles.
Kids. Yes, they’re fine. But they go their own way. Long gone now. About your age, they are. As a matter of fact you look a bit like my youngest. Peter. He’s out in Saudi now. Don’t see him much.
I feel the intimacy now like a sucking of air out of the room. I feel an urgent need to push the conversation along, get it out of the way.
But you must have friends? I say, pointedly putting away my papers, tidying up my desk, rattling the door keys softly.
Oh. Maud and I didn’t have much time for that sort of thing. It was just me and her, and the family. You know, I wish now… of course…
Then he looks up at me beseechingly, and I suddenly know what he’s going to say next, and I know for certain that he hasn’t come in here to buy a flat at all, but because he recognized me all along, because he saw me as a potential target, an aspirin for his tremendous hurt.
Per… Perhaps we could go and have a drink sometime. I’m always passing this way.
His old watery eyes fix me with what I think for a moment is a stare of mad intensity. I suddenly see his desperation and am terrified by it. I realize now that I’ve seen him walk past the office on several occasions, presumably trying to work up the courage to come in. I take a deep breath. By now I feel genuinely sorry for him and I wish I could do something to repair his life, but I can’t. My own life is trouble enough, scorched enough. And Butson, sitting there, suddenly seems like my future, or one of my futures, come to warn me, or mock me. In a faint panic now, I get up from my chair.
Well, Mr Butson, that’s a very nice idea. But I’m afraid I’m extremely…
He blinks, holds his hand as if silencing me.
Of course, of course. I me
an, it was just a thought.
Too quickly, he gets up and reaches over with an open palm. I take his hand and shake it. His hand is firm and dry. I can see the agony of this dignified, grave man, the shame he feels at being reduced to trawling for company like a rich man turned suddenly into a beggar. I am ashamed that I cannot – that I will not – help him. But he is a vortex into which I am not prepared to fall.
I’ll let myself out. Good luck then, Frankie.
You too, Mr Butson.
Harry.
Harry.
And with that he is up from his chair, out of the door and gone into the late summer dusk. He leaves the catalogue behind him on the chair. I stare at it. His fingerprint still shows on the gloss.
And then, after sitting there not moving for about five minutes, I reach for my phone and begin to dial.
Chapter Seventeen: WWJD?
It was Colin I called first. I’ve been worried about Colin. I know his mother is very ill because my mum told me. And if Olive Burden relies on Colin, it’s impossible to guess how much Colin relies on her. What’s more, I called him twice, left messages, but he didn’t call me back. I couldn’t believe that he had that much of the egg on. Up until the fight at the golf game he would always return my calls, gratefully, within minutes.
This morning he did finally call me, but something was wrong. It wasn’t that he was still angry – quite the reverse. He seemed high, airy.
Hi, Frankie!
Colin. How are you, mate?
Fine. Fine.
Listen I’m sorry what I… I didn’t mean to… at the golf course.
Forget it, Frankie. It doesn’t matter. Really.
I felt a wash of relief.
No, Colin. I want to see you. To explain. That I never meant it.
The phone went quiet.
Colin? Are you still there?
Yes. Of course.
Have you seen Nodge? Or Tony?
No. I’ve not seen much of anyone really.
No one at all?
Not really. Just this other mate. You don’t know him.
Good. Terrific, I sputtered, wanting to get past the small talk.
Silence again. I’ve met some of Colin’s friends before. There’s quite a high turnover. He has these little crushes. They’re all nerds, losers, computer dinks. I’m hoping he’s not going to try and introduce us. I’ve had enough conversations about gigabytes, ram and fuzzy logic to last me a lifetime already with Colin.
Listen. Can we meet? Just the two of us, I mean.
Yes, said Colin simply.
I took out my diary and began to check. The week was very full. I was still working myself half to death. Then I saw that I had a gap this morning, when I’d got to go and see the vicar of the Church of the Holy Innocents, where Veronica and I were going to get married. He had been pretty put out that we were cancelling at such late notice, and I’d made a note to go down and see him and give him a bung of some kind. For the church spire, or new cushions, or orphans, or a dozen angels, whatever the fuck they spend the cash on in churches. He was a nice bloke, and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of any of the prominent locals when you’re an estate agent. So I’d pencilled him in between midday and one o’clock. It was only a quarter of a mile from Colin’s place.
There’s no way you can make today, is there?
Sure.
I’ve got to go and meet a vicar down by Ravenscourt Park. Twelve o’clock.
Yet another long pause.
A what?
A vicar. You know. The cunts with the dog collars. Hymnbooks, funerals, all that toss. Weddings.
Oh.
Shall I meet you then? In the park, say, quarter to twelve?
Great.
Later, Col.
Bye, Frankie.
That was three hours ago. So now I’m driving down the road at the perimeter of the park. I pull up the Beemer, park it and step out on to the pavement. In the distance, on a park bench, I can see Colin throwing breadcrumbs at the pigeons. He is alone.
It’s a chilly day and the park is more or less empty. Colin cuts a solitary figure sitting there. He is dressed worse than ever – his clothes are dirty and unironed, and his hair is not combed. Although it is cold today, he is wearing only a thin, short-sleeved shirt. There is a shadow of stubble around his chin.
He sees me and his face lights up. He immediately gets up and moves towards me. To my amazement, he reaches his arms out and gives me an enormous hug. More. He kisses me on the cheek. Then he steps back and regards me as if I was fresh out of the packet. I feel the need to say something.
Hello, Colin. You look well made up. Won the lottery?
Still Colin doesn’t say anything. He just nods his head. My sense of awkwardness grows and I reach out for some small talk.
What you been up to then?
Oh. This and that.
I sit down on the wooden bench, but Colin remains standing.
So you haven’t seen Tony or Nodge?
Nah. Just this other bloke.
I’m already struggling for things to say. I vaguely sense that there is a new impenetrability about Colin and it makes me nervous. I find myself picking at a bit of old paint from the wood. It comes off in my hand and I start to tear it into small pieces.
That was a funny old do, wasn’t it?
What?
The golf game.
I suppose it was, yeah.
This is getting a bit torturous. I’m beginning to regret phoning Colin in the first place.
How’s your mum? All right, is she?
Colin’s smile widens very slightly.
Fine.
Good.
Very well.
Excellent.
Though… Not all that well, I suppose.
No?
No.
He blinks at me. His eyes are slightly sunken. He looks much older than thirty, but then he has for the past five years.
Actually, they took her away.
Who took her away?
The hospital.
Why?
Because she went a bit funny.
Well, she’s been a bit… you know… for a long time.
No, but she really went… funny. Didn’t know who I was any more. Didn’t have the faintest idea.
Oh.
And she started wetting herself and everything, and doing her, you know, stuff in the bed. Shit and that. Then she got violent.
Violent?
She punched the social worker. Right in the face. She bit the postman’s hand when he tried to get her signature for a letter. She even tried to attack me. With one of her knitting needles…
He held his right arm up. There was a raw, freshly stitched scar there just above the elbow.
So they had to take her away.
Oh, I… that’s –
I’m living by myself in the flat now.
I dry up. There is a very long silence. I become aware of the sounds of the park. Ducks are fighting at the pond. Children at the playground are screaming at each other. The thwack of tennis balls on the tarmac courts. The wind in my ears.
Do you go and see her?
Sometimes. But she just sits there, staring out of the window. Doesn’t know me from Adam.
Will she… can she get better?
No. She’ll be dead soon.
He says this in a tone no different from if he had been ordering a pint. Flat, polite. I feel a small shock inside me.
Colin, I’m so very sorry. I really… I wish you’d called me. I didn’t know. I feel awful.
Colin shakes his head.
It’s OK, Frankie. I’m fine. It’s been coming a long time. I think I needed to be alone anyway to sort myself out. I see things much more clearly now. You know, sometimes I think poor old Mum relied on me too much. I’m sure of it. I wonder if I didn’t feel too sorry for her sometimes. Or if somehow she… she made sure I felt sorry. Do you get what I mean?
Fucking A, Col, I think, but I say gravely, Yes
. I know. I know exactly what you mean. Poor old Olive, though. Was it… is she in pain?
For a moment he looks sad, before his face recomposes into a mask of rigid tranquillity.
Oh yes. A great deal, I think. She’s scared. Terrified. I told her there was no need to be. But it went in one ear and out the other.
I nod and wring my hands. I want to throw my arms round Colin, but something is stopping me. It’s the same thing that stops silences, that makes us compete, that causes us to punish each other instead of comfort each other. I can think of very little that I’m prepared to say. The wind is making Colin’s unwashed hair stand on end, so he looks even more eccentric. A tiny, carefully polished QPR enamel badge sits on the lapel of his dirty shirt. I notice that next to it he is wearing another, slightly larger badge with the inscription ‘WWJD?’.
What’s that stand for?
Nothing. It’s a kind of joke.
Oh. Pretty funny. You seem OK, though, I lied.
I’m fine. In a strange kind of way, I’ve never been better.
Well, it’s an ill wind…
That’s true.
A stray dog runs up to us and jumps at Colin’s leg. Colin has always been nervous of dogs and this is a big one, some kind of Alsatian crossbreed. But he just leans over and pats it on the head.
Good boy.
I look at my watch. I’m going to be late for the vicar.
Colin, I have to go to the church and see the vicar. It’s about the wedding.
Oh.
Why don’t you walk along with me?
If you like.
Colin leaves the dog alone and begins walking towards the exit of the park. I fall in behind him. His pace is steady, slow. As he walks, he suddenly begins to talk in a low monotone, like he was hypnotized. He does not look at me.
You know, you’ve always been a good friend to me, Frankie. I know you don’t think you have but you have. Of course it’s been annoying for me. That you’ve always been stronger, more successful and so on. It’s kind of humiliating in a way. I suppose it’s been a bit like… drug addiction. Something you need but… hate at the same time.